by S. D. Perry
Deep in the bottommost level of the Valo VI Facility, Dost Abor had taken a moment away from the monotony of his post to answer a call from another of his colleagues in the Order, a man named Kutel Esad. Abor had been acquainted with this man since before his recruitment into the Order, when the two were both in their culmination year at school, but Kutel’s needle-sharp face had changed very little in all those years. It had often been said that Kutel was old before his time, both in appearance and in outlook, and now, in late middle age, he had finally grown into his cautious nature.
“Hello, Dost,” his old friend greeted him. “You indicated in your communiqué that there was some item of business you wanted conveyed to Tain?”
“Indeed, Kutel,” Abor said smoothly. “In reviewing transmissions sent from the Ministry of Science at approximately the time of the object’s disappearance—”
“The object?”
Abor hesitated with some impatience. He had forgotten, of course, that Esad would not know what he was talking about without a bit more explanation. “The Orb, I mean. The object I recovered from the ministry’s storeroom.”
The item in question had been stolen from the Order sometime during the upheaval that followed the assassination of Tain’s predecessor, and had landed in the hands of the Ministry of Science on Cardassia Prime. There it had lain, almost forgotten, except for a single report of a disturbing reaction experienced by a young scientist, many years past. The item had not been seen since, not until Dost Abor ordered a thorough search for it, which had yielded results earlier in the month.
Esad nodded now as he remembered. “Yes, the Bajoran artifact. Tain had it refiled within the Order’s collection, but we have never been able to glean anything of value from any of the so-called Orbs. I must tell you that he was puzzled why you went to so much trouble to locate this particular object.”
“The item itself is of no interest to us,” Abor told his friend. “It is who last handled it that might be of some relevance.”
Esad did not answer, only rearranged his features to convey dubious expectation.
Abor went on. “I have quite a lot of time to review old transmissions, messages that have been encrypted, intercepted, and then filed away to be decoded at another time. The last time I was stationed here, I happened upon an old one, sent approximately twelve years ago, that had originated at the Ministry of Science with a researcher named Kalisi Reyar. Her father is Yannik Reyar. Do you know him?”
The tight line of Esad’s mouth pinched together. “He is Enabran Tain’s military go-between,” he said briskly.
“Correct,” Abor replied. “Yannik Reyar received a transmission from his daughter regarding a matter that she felt concerned the Order. One of our tracers flagged a few terms it felt warranted our attention, but the second check found nothing of immediate interest in the transmission and filed it away to be reviewed at another time. I was the one tasked with reviewing that message to determine its relevance, and I learned something that I found to be a bit curious.”
“And what might that be?” Esad’s tone indicated that he was indulging his old friend.
“It seems that his daughter was the person who gave authorization for our object to be removed from the science ministry’s storeroom, the last time it was taken out—before it became classified and then misplaced.”
Esad nodded, but his expression still held no interest.
“That last encounter with the object coincided with an outcropping of rumor surrounding the Oralians.”
Esad made a face now, expressing his disgust regarding the followers of the so-called Oralian Way. The ancient faith had supposedly experienced a resurgence in the past decade or so, a surprise to many who had previously accepted that the followers had all been killed in the settlements on Bajor, where they had been relocated prior to the annexation of that world. Modern Cardassians were not sad to see them go, for their religion was an impediment to progress, a throwback to a time of foolish superstition and a cumbersome theocratic government. Recent reports indicating that groups of Oralians had begun to meet in secret was puzzling and perplexing to Central Command. Many believed that these groups were simply comprised of young, rebellious people, experimenting with forbidden nostalgia that they did not actually understand.
“Enabran Tain is fairly certain that the rumors surrounding the Oralian Way are just that—rumors,” Esad said.
“They may be only rumors, but even if they are—the inception of those rumors coincided with the disappearance of that Orb.”
Esad nodded slowly. “Have you reviewed the files regarding the Ministry of Science’s records on the object?”
“Yes. The last scientist to handle the object was a woman named Miras Vara. I believe she was the one who misfiled it in the first place.”
“The ministry claimed that it was misfiled accidentally. They are not known for their efficiency, as anyone can attest—”
Abor interrupted the other agent. “Miras Vara disappeared at the same time as the object. She did not misfile it by accident, Kutel. She took pains to hide it. Now, why do you suppose she would have done that?”
“I have no idea,” the other agent replied. “But if you have a theory, I suggest you enlighten me, because I am sure that Tain would love to hear it.”
Abor hesitated, deciding how much he wanted to elaborate. “She is affiliated with the Oralians,” he said. “I am sure of it.”
Esad chortled lightly. “Your certainty will not go far with Tain. But if you can prove it, Dost, then I suspect Tain might have reason to congratulate you.”
“I don’t want congratulations,” Abor said. “I want to be back in the field, where I belong.”
Esad smiled. “Well. I will let Tain know of your, ah, suspicions, and we’ll see what he has to say.”
Abor returned his smile with cordiality. “I will look forward to his reply.”
2
Thrax watched a string of the little orange-hued people as they unloaded the shipping containers from the open maw of their ship’s hull, making fairly efficient work of it, but Terok Nor’s security chief was wary of them nonetheless. Under his gaze, one of the creatures broke away from the others and strode across the cargo bay toward him.
“I am DaiMon Gart,” said the oily little man, indistinguishable from the rest of his crew.
“DaiMon,” Thrax acknowledged curtly, wondering if he might have met this particular Ferengi before—their names were as similar as their ugly faces and their loudly patterned outfits. Thrax manufactured a thin smile. “It’s a pleasure to do business with you, sir.”
“Oh, no, the pleasure is entirely mine,” Gart said eagerly. “In fact, I wonder if your commander might be interested in working out a trade agreement with my little venture. I noted that you Cardassians have been doing business with the Lissepians for quite some time…but did you also know that the Lissepians have been secretly tacking on a surcharge for their refueling costs? They are also notorious for overcharging their clients for unstable cargo. We Ferengi have no qualms about taking on virtually anything you want transported—even through Federation space, if necessary—and I do mean anything.”
“Ferengi have few qualms, I’ve found,” Thrax said mildly, though he was certain that Dukat would have no interest in striking up a “bargain” with Gart, or any other Ferengi. They were an intensely avaricious people—annoyingly so, in fact, with a reputation for deceit.
A noisy scuffle caught his attention, interrupting the flow of shipping containers through the short brigade of Gart’s crew.
“Tell your men to resolve their disputes somewhere other than on my station,” Thrax said sharply.
“Quark!” The DaiMon shouted. “Do your job, you ungrateful wretch, or you’ll be tossed out the airlock with that load of replicated gree worms you’ve been trying to feed us!”
One of the Ferengi shouted back to his DaiMon. The man, presumably Quark, carried one end of a long shipping container, assisted by a shorter F
erengi who grunted as the brigade came to a halt. “Those gree worms are not replicated!” Quark protested. “I spent a fortune on them, I’ll have you know!”
Another of the Ferengi spoke up. “I’ve had those gree worms, and they’re not only replicated, they’re awful! He’s been lying on his expense reports, DaiMon!”
“Why you—” Quark shouted, dropping his half of the shipping container to lunge for his crewmate’s excuse for a neck.
“Enough!” Thrax roared. “If you damage that equipment, I can guarantee that Gul Dukat will charge you double for it—and what you don’t have in currency, he’ll be happy to take out of your hides!” If there was one thing the security chief had learned during his years on Terok Nor, it was the effectiveness of making threats on the prefect’s behalf. Dukat had a reputation too, after all.
The two Ferengi immediately went back to work, but their argument continued, whispered now.
Gart began his pitch again, perhaps thinking that if he grinned wider, exposing more of his filed teeth, Thrax would believe him sincere—but behind him, the sniping Ferengi were back at it, their voices rising even louder than before.
“Quark! Kurga!” Gart turned and shouted. “I warned you!”
The smaller of the two Ferengi, the one with a mournful expression that appeared to be permanent, pointed to the other. “He is trying to cheat you, Gart! He overcharged you for that last run of synthale, and I have evidence that he has really and truly been trying to poison you! He wants to—”
“Stop it at once!” Thrax demanded, just before Quark made another clumsy attempt to swing at his crewmate. Thrax was not the sort of man to draw a weapon without worthy cause. He stepped closer to the line of squabbling aliens and reached out to grab one of the Ferengi by the ear, which caused the most horrible screeching noise Thrax thought he’d ever heard. The other men in the line promptly dropped their containers with a collective clatter and clapped their hands over their ears. Thrax recognized the efficacy of such a squeal in the realm of defense. For a people with hearing so much more sensitive than his own, the sound had to be excruciating. Indeed, despite his own rather mediocre hearing, Thrax’s head seemed to be splitting in two because of the horrid sound, and he quickly let go of the man’s ear. The screaming ceased, but the scuffle threatened to continue before the Ferengi named Quark dashed through the cargo bay and out into the corridor.
“Good riddance,” Gart snapped, and turned back to Thrax. “Now, about our negotiations—”
“Don’t press your luck,” Thrax said. “Just unload the cargo and get out of here. Unless you want my people to unload it for you.”
The threat—that he would have the Ferengi’s ship searched, undoubtedly uncovering vast quantities of stolen supplies or expensive contraband—did the trick.
“Of course, yes, it’s a pleasure,” Gart said meekly, and turned back to his crew, who had quickly and quietly resumed their work.
Thrax watched them carefully until the last container was unloaded, wondering if the fight was really a means to distract him while another of the Ferengi robbed the station blind. He’d better find this Quark right away and get him off the station as expediently as possible. The last thing Terok Nor needed was an unattended Ferengi; the Bajorans gave him enough trouble as it was.
Natima ran a finger over the edge of her glass. The bit of kanar she’d already sipped had gone straight to her head. She would not have chosen kanar for herself, but when she’d arrived, Russol had already put in the drink orders, leaving Natima to accept whatever was brought to her.
Natima liked the restaurant he’d chosen. It was dark and pretty and too expensive. She could remember the first time she had come here, to celebrate her apprenticeship with the Information Service. She’d had no family with which to come, and so she had come alone, to toast her own unlikely success.
Most people followed the career trajectory that had been laid out for them by their parents when they were children. Natima had been left to find her own path after being turned out by the orphanage where she’d grown up on Cardassia II. She had applied for the apprenticeship and gotten it, beating out several others with familial connections to the Information Service. It was the proudest and most exhilarating moment of her life, not likely ever to be replicated. It was the first time she’d felt herself to be a true member of the Union, self-sufficient and able to serve.
It was impossible not to remember that sensation as she sat here, across from Russol, sipping kanar like any other Cardassian—but deep inside she felt different, and she would always feel different. It was a topic she would never be comfortable discussing with someone like Russol. Another orphan might understand, perhaps, but very few grew up to be productive members of society. Natima didn’t have much chance of speaking to another, at least not one from her own world. On Bajor, it had been a different story.
Natima brought herself back into the present, mentally filing away volatile topics for another time. “I don’t much care for kanar,” she said, being truthful, but also playfully irritable.
“I apologize, then,” Russol said, and in his earnest reply Natima saw that he had not asked her here in order to be coy. She frowned slightly into her drink. Of course he would have no romantic interest in her—no man ever seemed to. She supposed she scared them away, but she was too old and set in her ways to feel more than a moment’s regret. She’d been ignored by better.
“It’s not a problem,” she said. “It won’t hurt me to try something new.” She took another sip, no longer caring quite so much if she became a little inebriated.
“Miss Lang,” Russol began.
“Call me Natima,” she said, not so much to flirt with him, since he’d made it clear that wasn’t his purpose, but to eschew as much of the yoke of formality as possible. Natima found it tiresome after a while, trying to keep up appearances. It had never come naturally to her, as she’d never had anyone to teach her the nuances of appropriate social behavior from the time she was a child; it had all been learned by trial and error, with sometimes embarrassing results.
“Natima, it has come to my attention that you’re…not in full agreement with the direction the military government has begun to take in the past few decades.” He looked at her uneasily.
Natima narrowed her eyes, reflexively searching for traps. “Everyone has their own ideas about the way things ought to be run,” she said ambiguously, and took a larger sip of her drink.
“Yes, I suppose it’s true, though most decline to discuss it.”
“Certainly in a place as public as this one,” she said, lowering her voice slightly.
“So…you would be more comfortable if we discussed this topic elsewhere?”
Natima considered it. What was he asking her, exactly? Did Russol’s dissent go deeper than mere complaints coming off the front lines? She wasn’t sure how to respond, but some string of curiosity deep in her mind had been plucked, and she could not pretend she did not hear the humming.
“It…it depends,” she said, again ambiguous. What might she be getting herself into?
“Natima, I’ve done quite a bit of checking up on you, and I believe I can trust you,” he said, looking into her eyes. “I’ve reviewed the stories you’ve done in the past, and though it was often subtle, I’ve definitely detected a…tone from you, and from your stories. I feel as though a person like you…could be useful in what I am trying to do.”
Natima swallowed before answering, trying to keep her voice indifferent. “This is starting to seem a little dangerous,” she said airily, and finished her drink.
“It is dangerous,” Russol admitted. “You and I both know that Central Command has eyes and ears everywhere. They probably already know what I’m up to. If they don’t, then it’s a given that the Obsidian Order does.”
Natima wrinkled her nose at what seemed to be a proclamation of defeat. “Then why are you pursuing…whatever it is you’re pursuing, Glinn Russol?”
“Because I love Cardassia,
” he replied without hesitation. “And I feel that preservation of her most basic ideals is worth the risk of execution. I don’t have a family, and neither do you. I feel that my first obligation is to Cardassia. I wonder, Natima, if you might feel similarly?”
A man came around to their table to ask after their order, and Natima did not hesitate to request another kanar. Russol’s raised eyeridge made her smile. “I think I’ve developed a taste for it,” she said, indicating the empty glass in her hands.
Russol watched her, waited, and she made her decision.
“I agree that this topic might be best discussed elsewhere. Where and when would you like to meet?” The words rang slightly in her ears as she spoke them. If Russol was indeed trying to trick her, then she had probably just implicated herself. But she studied his gaze once more, and felt assured that he was not. Either that, or he was in the Order. She knew their agents trained to be as convincingly sincere as Russol was now being.
“I have a few friends I think you might be interested in meeting,” Russol told her. “I am hoping that they will benefit as much from the encounter as you will.”
The steward brought Natima her second drink, and this time, she downed it in a single draught.
Mora Pol was clearing up his desk for the night—a mere formality, but one that gave him some sense that he still maintained a shred of control over his own life. He felt overwhelmed by despair this evening—not a new sensation for him, though it was especially crushing tonight. The system he had been working on for over six years was finally complete. It was the sort of thing that should have given any scientist some measure of triumph, but not for Doctor Mora—for the system in question was a weapon, to be used against his own people.
Collaborator. Murderer.
